


to the center of the city where all roads meet, waiting for you

by ghoulizard



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 08:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18385106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoulizard/pseuds/ghoulizard
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Racetrack Higgins is not an idiot. He is, as a matter of fact, very observant. More specifically, he's very observant to what Brooklyn's fearless and emotionless leader, Spot Conlon, is up to, especially when it concerns him.///(spot really isn’t as subtle as he thinks)





	to the center of the city where all roads meet, waiting for you

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Joy Division’s “Shadowplay” (it’s a bop go give it a listen)
> 
> using the movie appearances because i love those sweethearts!

Contrary to popular belief, Racetrack Higgins is not an idiot. Sure, he bets on things he's bound to lose and argues his way into fights he doesn't stand a chance in, but he's no idiot. He gambles and fights for the thrill of it, not for victory or money. Race is the kind of guy who'll lose everything he owns just to shrug it off with a smile. He knows perfectly well what he's doing to himself, and to others. Paired with that insight, he can also tell what other people are doing mostly all the time. He is, as a matter of fact, very observant. More specifically, he's very observant to what Brooklyn's fearless and emotionless leader, Spot Conlon, is up to, especially when it concerns him.   
  
Race, due to the fact that he's not  _ blind _ , can tell that Spot is watching him whenever he's in Brooklyn territory, selling at the sheepshead. To be fair, the king never comes himself; always sending one of his men to do so for him. Nonetheless, he's obviously keeping tabs on the young Italian. Even when he's in Manhattan, Racetrack will spot (no pun intended) Brooklyn newsies following him around, pretending to look uninterested, but still stealing glances from under their caps or over the top of a newspaper.   
  
At first, Race was amused at having an "audience", but after a while he grew tired and annoyed with the constant feeling of eyes on him prickling the back of his neck. That's why, one day, he decided to speak to Spot personally after his routine game of cards with some Brooklyn boys down at the docks. Most newsies would never dare to confront the great and feared King of Brooklyn, but most newsies also wouldn't cross into a territory they didn't belong to just to play some poker, something Racetrack does on a daily basis. It's safe to say that Race doesn't let terror or social norms guide his choices, and this situation wouldn't be any different.   
  
So, the following day after he takes the money of half the Brooklyn boys in a heated game of cards, he walks up to Leaf, a boy high on Spot's chain of power. "Hiya Leaf," he says, tipping his hat off to the taller kid in front of him. "What're the chances of you lettin' me in to see 'ol Spotty boy? His room's up there, ain't it?" He gestures vaguely to the Brooklyn boarding house Leaf's leaning on.   
  
The thin twig-like boy is somewhat taken aback, a toothpick dangling precariously from his semi-open mouth. The kids close enough to overhear Race scoff in disbelief and stare at him with wide eyes. People were never so forward when speaking about the king, and if they were they would probably be found dead or beaten an inch from it in an ally in the morning. Aside from that, nobody was allowed in Spot's private room, not even his second in command, Acer. Leaf was about to explain just that when-   
  
"Let 'em up Leaf," comes a voice from above them. They look up to see the very king in question sitting on the top level of the fire escape, his legs dangling haphazardly off the edge. All the newsies turned their heads to face Racetrack in an almost comic manner, their jaws dropped and looking at him as if he were some sort of alien.   
  
Race just grins up at him and waves. "Hey Spot! Didn't see ya there! Well, thanks anyways fellas, but I best be on up. I've got a bone ta pick with this here king of yours," he finishes, flashing another dazzling smile at the boys who were still staring at him, and heading inside the narrow brick building. If anyone notices Spot's huff of laughter at Race's confidence, nobody mentions it.   
  
The truth is, Race has known Spot for a long time now. Late night escapades over the bridge and days spent causing mayhem in between selling have formed a bond between th. That’s part of why what Spot was doing was upsetting him so much, Race supposes. If he wanted to talk or something, he could just say so! They weren’t exactly strangers- not by a long shot.

 

Racetrack climbs up the stairs of the lodging building loudly, making sure his presence is known. When he reaches Spot’s room, one of the only ones in the house with a door (being king does have its perks, after all), he barges in without knocking. He’s visited a few times before, but only ever on the nights where he’s spent too long playing cards and not watching the time or the weather is too bad to cross the bridge, in which Spot would lead him upstairs to sleep on his floor with an eye roll.

 

The room looks different in the light of day, and Race can now see how small it is. There’s just enough room for a cot to be shoved in one corner and an old crate in the other that shelved an oil lamp and a pack of cigarettes. Spot was sitting on the window ledge smoking, and looked up at Race when he entered. Putting out his cigarette on the fire escape, he didn’t bother moving from his perch when addressing the manhattan newsie. "So what brings ya here, Higgins?"   
  
"Oh, I'm jus' here to clear some things up wit' you," Race replies, sterling himself against the leveling gaze Spot was giving him. “I don't need no babysitter, Conlon.

  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Spot replies coolly.   
  
"Naw Spot, you know I ain't no numbskull like some of the boys. I know when someone's followin' me, an' right now that someone is you. So what I need is for you to tell ya boys to back off so's I can sell my papes in peace like the rest of yous." Race, says, his voice rising in volume as he goes.   
  
Spot just stares at him calmly. "I don't think yous is understandin' me Higgins. You sell on my turf, you abide by my rules. I'm the king ‘round here, and the king can look out for whoever he pleases."   
  
Racetrack felt the edges of his mouth curl up in a smirk. Whether Spot intended to or not, he just gave Race a crucial piece of information. "Awe, the great Spot Conlon cares 'bout lil 'ol me? I'm downright touched."   
  
It had the desired effect, and Race watched with satisfaction as a deep red began to creep up Spot’s neck from below his collar. Race finds himself wanting to see how far that blush continued down, but was distracted by Spot mumbling something about Race being an idiot before rising to his feet, leaving his cane on the ground where it slid off his lap. Due to the size of the room, it only took two steps for Spot to be in his face, their noses practically touching. He growls and gives Race a hard shove that sends him into the wall and to the ground, partly because he's caught off guard, but mostly because for a little guy, Spot sure is strong.   
  
Following Race to the wall, he grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks him upright. He leans in painfully close to his ear, his warm breath ghosting over his neck and sending his heart beating way too fast for his liking. "So what if I do?" He asks gruffly, tightening his hold on Race's shirt.   
  
“Well,” Race takes a breath, “You might be in luck- seein’ how I care ‘bout you too.”

 

There was a beat where neither boy said anything; letting the weight of the words sink in. Then suddenly, Race feels lips pressed delicately- cautiously- against his own. The first thing he notices is how soft and warm the taller boy's lips are in contrast to his own, which are constantly chapped from yelling the headlines all day. He hears his heart beating loudly in his ears, yet still he doesn't move, just stands there with his lips pressed against Spot's, caught between him and the wall.

 

There’s a moment where time seems to stop, and Race is left staring right at Spot’s eyes, which are squeezed shut, before closing his own as well and tugging the other boy in by the back of his neck so they were pressed together all the way down to their entangled legs. Spot sighs against his mouth, and the action loosens the kiss to the point where Race can take control, moving his lips and guiding an inexperienced Spot along.

  
Their lips slot together perfectly again and again, and  _ fuck _ , did that feel good.

  
Race would have expected Spot to have the same angry and hard attitude towards kissing as he does everything else, but as it turns out he was very wrong in his assumption. Spot kissed him gently, like he was something to be treasured and kept safe. He moved his hand that was clutching his shirt to shakily comb through the short Italian's jet black hair, the other moving to gently caress the side of his face, his trembling fingers dancing over Race's cheek before settling down by his jaw.   
  
Seeing (or more like feeling) the king of brooklyn acting so nervously and hesitantly would make him laugh under any other circumstance, but Race is more preoccupied with the delicate way that Spot is holding him and how it send shivers down his spine to find humour in it.   
  
Race finds his hands moving to hold Spot's hips, rubbing small circles with his thumbs. He opens his mouth slightly and runs his tongue along his partner's bottom lip, eliciting a very un-kinglike gasp that Race uses to slip into the lighter haired boy's mouth gracefully. He makes quick work of exploring every corner of Spot's mouth, sucking on his tongue and running over his teeth. He continues until the boy above him is literally quivering before he backs off enough to suck his bottom lip into his mouth, delighting in the noises the feared leader is making.    
  
Eventually Race pulls away, laughing softly when Spot instinctively chases after his lips. His laughter evolves into full fledged giggles when Spot resolves instead to place little butterfly kisses all over his face.

 

Race only smiled to himself. Though he didn't like being treated like a little kid who couldn't handle himself, he found that he wouldn't care so much as long as they could keep doing whatever this was. After all, being followed is really just a small price to pay to get Brooklyn’s fearless leader in his arm, dropping kisses over his face in little actions that felt a lot like the beginning of something wonderful.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! so this is kind of my least favourite thing but i’m tired to i’m posting it anyways
> 
> comments+kudos make me so happy ya’ll don’t even know


End file.
